


Monochrome Mourning

by jack merridontme (luckystrike)



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Aged up characters, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Modern AU, Violence, i imagine them to be in their late teens at the least haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckystrike/pseuds/jack%20merridontme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger and Maurice walk home from the movies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monochrome Mourning

The world is cold and dark and grey as you and Maurice walk home from the movies. _In other words, it’s the epitome of cliché,_ you think as you momentarily pause in your mundane, if tiresome excursion in the rain to watch Maurice slip over a puddle in his haste to get his jacket over you.

He falls, rather spectacularly, on his arse.

Something akin to a smile tugs at your lips, but you school your face into an expressionless mask when Maurice gets to his feet. He grins sheepishly, rubbing his hand at the back of his neck. Then, he puts his arm around you – something he wasn’t able to do at the movies due to your expert skill in avoiding physical contact.

But you can’t avoid him now, nor can you help the warm flush that spreads on your cheeks. Maurice says something about holding onto you for balance. You see through him quite easily, but make no move to contradict him. His arm almost feels _nice,_ and the warmth of Maurice’s body cuts through the damp chill of the rain. You think you’ll let him leave this date with all his bones intact.

The pair of you has been going out for some time now, and other than the countless times Maurice embarrasses himself, it hasn’t been a total disaster. Dare you say it, you have actually been enjoying his company.

But you don’t think you could ever get used to the way your heart pounds inexplicably around him, or the way his arm tightens around you as he urges you not to look back when he tells you to run in a low murmur.

_Wait, what?_

“Go, Roger!” Maurice shoves you forward in an effort to give you a head start, but he underestimates his own strength. You slip and fall, palms scraping the pavement. Dark spots appear, clouding your vision; in your disorientation, your mind skips back to memory lane, flashbacks intertwining with the present and interfering with your ability to function. You instinctively curl into a ball, waiting for the sting of your father’s belt and his drunken bellows about how much of a failure you are.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, you hear someone shouting about handing over some money and Maurice grunting as he does his best to fend them off.  They sound like they’re underwater. _Not good._ You tell yourself to get the hell up, to help Maurice.

But you remain on the ground, paralyzed by the memories that haunted you over the years.

His scream is what finally snaps you out of it.

Seeing red, you scramble to your feet and charge at the figure in front of Maurice. You snarl as you scratch, hit, kick and bite at the assailant, wanting him to feel the pain that ran through you all those years, wanting him to feel the sheer gut-wrenching terror that you felt when you hear Maurice screaming. You hazard to say it’s bad as your childhood trauma because although you felt **scared** _helpless_ terrified in both scenarios, you know for a fact that your father is gone; he has been for several years.

You don’t know what you would do if Maurice were gone.

Eventually, the attacker _(or is it victim?)_ stops moving, and you give one final, vengeful kick to their head before you run to Maurice’s side.

The boy is lying on the sidewalk, as you were earlier, but he’s on his back, hands on his chest. _Just like a corpse in a coffin –_

“Maurice?” You kneel beside him, trying not to look at the knife that’s buried hilt-deep into his stomach or the way scarlet splotches stain his clothes and spill onto the pavement.

“R…Roger,” Maurice answers weakly, and he reaches out to touch your cheek. His hand is warm and wet – with blood or rain, you don’t want to know. “Thank you…”

“Don’t try to talk, you bloody idiot.” Your voice is harsh, but through the veil of tears starting to blur your vision, you can see Maurice start to smile. His usually bright grin is marred by the blood in this mouth.

“Heh… Bloody.” You scowl at your unintentional pun, not finding it funny. Maurice tries to laugh, a pale echo of his former guffaws, but he ends up coughing. “Roger, I think I…”

 _“_ I thought I told you to _shut the fuck up.”_ You don’t raise your voice, not even when you’re angry enough to feel the urge to stab someone, but the thought of Maurice leaving you, the thought of letting this annoying, charming, obnoxious, endearing ray of sunshine in your life disappear terrifies you more than anything. “Don’t you dare tell me you love me or some bullshit about you seeing the light or –”

His hand slips from your face. Eyes widening, you watch helplessly as the twinkle in his eyes starts to fade, and you stumble on your words until they become an incoherent, jumbled mess. Despite the knife in his stomach, you grab his shoulders and start to shake him. _You can’t leave me like this, you stupid, stupid idiot,_ you want to scream, _you can’t just die with a smile on your face._

The world is cold and dark and grey as you hold the body of the boy you might’ve loved in your arms. Crimson taints your clothes and falls onto the ground along with the shattered pieces of your heart.

 

 

 


End file.
